


this could be something (if you let it be something)

by allourheroes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christmas Eve, Cold Weather, Confessions, Idiots in Love, M/M, Panic Attacks, Relationship Reveal, Secret Relationship, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Derek/Stiles Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 20:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16939797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/pseuds/allourheroes
Summary: Stiles issupposedto be back for Christmas Eve dinner with his dad, the weather just isn't cooperating with him.It means he's stuck at Derek's loft for a while and that would be great...if he didn't have to explainwhy.





	this could be something (if you let it be something)

**Author's Note:**

> For 12 Days of Sterek.
> 
> Warning: Stiles is seventeen here, so he's technically underage in California.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone in the sterekdrabbles community for sprinting with me and in particular to [Novkat21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/novkat21) and [Whispering_Sumire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire), who are wonderful and read this over for me.
> 
> Title from "Still Got Time" by Zayn.

Stiles stumbles back until his knees hit the edge of the bed. “Whoa,” he says, earning himself a glare.

Derek pulls away enough to raise an eyebrow.

With a nervous chuckle, Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. “Isn’t it more fun if I act like prey?” he asks against Derek’s lips, knowing that _he’s_ the one who likes Derek being the aggressor. He’ll readily admit he’s got a thing for the perceived danger, the thrum of instinctual tension up his spine when Derek growls into his mouth and topples them both onto the bed.

Stiles isn’t _really_ scared because Derek cradles him as they fall, the scruff of his beard scraping against the side of Stiles’s throat when they land as he mouths the sensitive skin there. Stiles whines low in his throat and Derek’s hand clasps his thigh, tugs his leg over Derek’s hip.

Derek nips the skin and lifts his head. He blinks away the red that has Stiles’s heart picking up another notch.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, tilts up enough that Derek dips his head down and the kiss is soft and slow...until he hitches his hips and their bodies fall into a grind that’s hard not to dive into.

Stiles tugs at Derek’s shirt and presses his hands to the warm skin Derek reveals as he acquiesces. He leeches as much heat as he can, roving fingers over abs and taut back muscles, draws Derek back into him.

Derek’s eyes and eyebrows ask permission to divest Stiles of his clothes and Stiles laughs, maneuvers so Derek can strip him. “Now what?” he asks, amused by how gentle Derek can’t help being with him sometimes. “Because I was thinking you should fuck me.” He bares his throat, spreads his legs, triggers those instincts to take and take and take.

Glowing red stares him down. “I can do that.”

He presses two slicked fingers against Stiles and Stiles has no idea when Derek managed to do _that_ but he’s not complaining as they slide into him. It’s a stretch and a burn and just the right-wrong side of too much at once and makes him whimper until Derek kisses him, swallows down the noise until it turns into something else.

Derek sucks a mark onto Stiles’s collarbone, works his way lower as his fingers fuck into the boy below him. He mouths at Stiles’s stomach before stopping at his cock. He licks a stripe along the bottom of the shaft and takes just the head in, uses his fingers to make Stiles buck up into his mouth.

“Derek, that’s just— Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Stiles grips one hand into the sheets and the other in Derek’s hair, fucking up into Derek’s mouth and down onto Derek’s fingers.

Derek takes him all the way and adds a third finger, flexing the digits until Stiles cries out.

“Please. You gotta— You gotta stop. I’m ready. I’m ready, I swear.” Stiles pants, staring at the ceiling for fear of coming immediately should he look at Derek.

Derek pulls off of his dick, but doesn’t remove his fingers, alternates between scissoring them and brushing them very purposefully against Stiles’s prostate. “Are you?” he asks, voice just a hint too thick to be even.

Stiles grabs at Derek until they’re face to face again, slinging a leg over Derek’s hip as he kisses him so hard he can barely breathe.

Derek removes his hand and angles Stiles’s hips up, only teasing until Stiles bites Derek’s lip and whines like a wounded animal, writhing and wanting and wanton and desperate. Only then does Derek still him, sink in slowly, torturously, as Stiles tries to be patient, to adjust, even as his body screams for _more_ and _now_.

“Der— Derek, come on,” Stiles urges. He’s ready to scream out in frustration, but Derek moves and he lets out a groan instead. He does his best to push back against Derek as Derek— _finally_ —starts fucking him.

Derek’s blunt human teeth turn too sharp against Stiles’s throat and he palms Stiles’s ass, helps keep rhythm even as he starts losing it. He fucks into Stiles like the world is ending and Stiles can handle it, because Stiles is stronger than anyone else might think.

Stiles’s cock bumps against Derek’s abs and he’d probably say something if he had any brain left to form real words, something like _touch me, please please please_.

Derek seems to hear him anyway, wraps his hand around Stiles’s cock and jerks in time, messy as their time may be.

Derek fucks into him, bites at him, and it’s too much, has Stiles coming too quickly with a gasp, gulping for air before Derek follows him over.

Not for the first time, Stiles thinks he’s totally spoiled by sex with werewolves. Or, rather, were _wolf_. He’s never been with anyone else, but how can it even _compare_?

Stiles showers while Derek makes lunch because the whole point is for him to _not_ stink like Derek. He even has his own separate body wash so they don’t smell like the same soap.

It’s not that he hadn’t _tried_ to tell anyone he’s with Derek, it’s just that Scott had been so weird about everything…

And then it had just… It had just seemed _easier_.

Stiles might be a coward, but at least it’s not when it’s life or death. He’s not too offended by his own inability to tell the pack that he and Derek are sleeping together because he knows he’ll have to. At some point. He’s already kept it secret long enough that it’ll be awkward anyway, why not wait a little bit longer?

His plans tonight are with his dad for Christmas Eve so he’s not concerned about scrubbing his skin raw like he might before a pack meeting, but Stiles has asked Derek about how long his scent lasts and, well, he might’ve gotten paranoid after that.

It’s unfortunate because he knows Derek loves it.

By the time he’s drying off, Derek is handing him a bowl and they sit in semi-silence as they eat, watching the rain fall outside. A lot of rain.

Like. Maybe too much?

Stiles puts his clothes back on with his usual lack of finesse, shoving his feet into his shoes like they’ve personally offended him.

They kind of have.

But only because putting on shoes right now means _leaving_ and Stiles very much does not want to leave.

With this weather seeming only to get worse and the hours ticking by far too quickly, he knows he has to go. The cold is eking into the loft and the water that drips from his still-wet hair sends goosebumps across his shoulders.

They risk a chaste kiss before Stiles heads out, and Derek looks disappointed— _always_ , which, what the hell?—but he doesn’t say anything.

Stiles can hear the water pounding as he descends down to his car, trying to shift his focus to dinner with his dad even though he can still feel Derek under his skin. He’s about to step outside when he realizes it’s _hailing_. Hard.

Stiles stares out towards his car, currently being pelted by so much hail that there’s a layer of little ice chunks forming, then to the sky, where the clouds are dark and foreboding despite the fact that it’s still early afternoon.

Staring at it up from Derek’s loft only a couple of minutes ago, it hadn’t been nearly this bad. It had just been rain! A downpour, but still. Rain!

This is not rain!

Stiles sticks his hand out and quickly pulls it back in at the sting. His palm turns white from the impact to a reddish pink and he shakes away the pain and cold. He stares at his Jeep for a moment longer, hoping it will survive—it’s been through worse, he knows. The chill in the air is already catching him off guard, a sharp wind cutting him to the bone.

“I’m coming back up!” he shouts, fairly certain Derek will hear him over the hail.

He shuts the door and traipses back up far too many stairs, his body protesting all of his exercise and particularly after his more vigorous paired activities coupled with the cold. _Worth it_ , he thinks, even as his thighs complain loudly.

Sliding open the loft door, Derek is putting on a kettle and Stiles glares, certain he can see the hint of a pleased smile on Derek’s face.

“How bad?” Derek asks, as if his wall of window isn’t a cinema of just how bad the weather has gotten.

Stiles takes his somehow still-freezing hand and shoves it under Derek’s shirt, against the small of his back, causing Derek to flinch. Stiles smirks, but can’t help smoothing his hand around Derek’s side, onto Derek’s stomach, as he leans in and presses a kisses to the nape of Derek’s neck.

Derek is still for a moment, before he turns, as if captured against the counter by the cage of Stiles’s arms.

“So I’m here,” Stiles asserts, watching Derek’s expression carefully. He can see how much Derek is trying to suppress, happy to have Stiles and feigning indifference, but there’s something awful there, too, and it makes Stiles frown. “I can go somewhere else. There— There are other places in the building or, well. No furniture. But I could, like, sit in the corner and wait it out.”

Derek’s gaze clicks to his at that, like he’s about to argue, but then he composes himself. “If that’s what you want.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course that’s not what I want, Der.”

Derek looks like he swallowed a lemon. “I want you here.”

Stiles smirks. “So why the face?” He pokes Derek’s cheek for emphasis.

“I want you to want to be here, not to just...get stuck with me.” And it’s clear he doesn’t just mean because of the storm.

Stiles lets go of Derek and takes a step back. He knows immediately that it’s the wrong move because Derek’s expression is wiped clean, returns to its default of anger and defeat. “Hey, that’s not what I—” He stops, huffs out a long breath. He doesn’t even know what he means, but he hadn’t meant it like _that_. He doesn’t know what he and Derek are to each other, whether Derek’s desire for him to stay is because he wants Stiles or he’s lonely or his wolf is possessive of whoever he’s sleeping with. He doesn’t even know how _he_ feels about Derek.

It doesn’t really help that no one knows.

Just as he scrubs a hand over his mouth, the thought hitting him, Stiles’s phone rings, startling him and Derek both. He checks the caller ID. “Shit. My dad.”

Stiles listens as his dad warns him about the storm, informs him that he’ll be home soon since he was already on the way.

And Stiles knows that he _should_ already be home, waiting. He’d been cutting it close. “I’m— I’m not actually there, Dad.”

The sheriff is deathly silent on the other end of the line, although the hailstorm can still be heard ricocheting off the roof of the cruiser. _“You’re not home,”_ his dad repeats. _“Then where the hell are you?”_

“I’m with pack?” Stiles answers uncertainly, can see Derek watching him from his periphery.

 _“Scott?”_ his dad asks, because it’s the easiest assumption to jump to.

Chewing on his lip for a moment, Stiles’s eyes dart to Derek and he begins to realize just how much of a jerk he’s been. Derek hasn’t been pushing for anything, but Stiles had been the one to take all of the precautions, to ensure they would never be seen together, to… “I’m with Derek,” he says.

Derek’s head snaps up.

“I’m at the loft with Derek.”

Another silence. _“Research?”_

“Not, uh. Not exactly.” He turns away, already feeling his heartrate ratchet up as he contemplates the words coming out of his mouth.

 _“Then what is my seventeen-year-old son doing over there without informing his father?”_ Stiles’s breath catches. _“Who just happens to be the sheriff and should be dealing with any life or death situations instead of leaving it up to a bunch of teenagers and Derek Hale? And don’t even **tell** me you’ve got Peter helping—”_

Stiles barks out a laugh. “God, no. No. It’s not like that.”

 _“Okay,”_ his dad starts slowly, suspicious. _“Then what’s it like?”_

“I’m— I’m _with_ Derek. Like, we’re… Yeah. I’m with Derek.”

 _“Are you trying to tell me you’re going to miss dinner because you’re”_ —and his dad’s voice becomes the high whisper-whine it does when he’s actually scandalized, Stiles can _hear_ the vein in his forehead popping— _“sleeping with Derek Hale?”_

Stiles hums. “Mmmyes?” He clenches his teeth together, braces for what his dad will say next.

No response.

“But anyway, I’m safe. We’re safe.” He winces at the phrasing. “From the storm. I’m just gonna hang out here until it passes. Love you, Dad.”

There’s a crack on the other end of the line and Stiles isn’t sure what exactly it is, but his dad’s voice comes back on. _“I love you, too,”_ he replies, in a way that sounds exactly like _everything you do brings me one step closer to an ulcer_. His dad ends the call without a goodbye.

Stiles takes a moment just to breathe, staring at his phone, before he turns back around to Derek.

“You told your father.”

Stiles swallows. “Yep.”

“What do you think he’s going to do?” And Derek actually sounds a little nervous so Stiles does his best to project calm.

With a shrug, Stiles pockets his phone. “It’ll be fine.” He offers a smile.

“He could have me arrested.”

“He won’t.”

They just stare at each other for a long time, interrupted by the whistle of the kettle.

Derek attends to it and Stiles comes up over his shoulder, inhaling as Derek pours the hot water over tea leaves. It’s the extra spicy chai that Derek says bothers his nose but Stiles loves.

He notes how Derek’s face twitches and, god, it’s obvious. Or, at least, it _should_ be.

Stiles is… He’s _pretty sure_ that Derek likes _him_ , not just having another person in the loft.

“So…” Stiles starts, taking a step back to give Derek room.

Derek turns, raising his eyebrows, shrugging, like he has no idea what Stiles is trying to get at.

It’s infuriating and frustratingly endearing. “Are you actually upset that I told my dad?”

Derek’s gaze rolls toward the ceiling. “No.”

“Is it because some wolfy part of you wants everyone to know that I’m your property or something?” Stiles asks. “Or because you like me? Or…?” Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’ve never said anything so I’ve got no clue what’s going on in that stupidly good-looking head of yours.”

“You’re not my property,” Derek allows.

Stiles nods thoughtfully. “Uh- _huh_.”

“I—” And Derek looks like he’s swallowed a wolfsbane-laced knife. “I _enjoy your company_.”

“Wow. Is that really the most painful thing you’ve ever had to say? Because I thought it was bad after the first time we—”

“ _Stiles_.” And he kisses Stiles, wrapping an arm around Stiles’s waist to pull him close.

“I wasn’t the only one who said it was a bad idea,” Stiles whispers. “That it would hurt the pack. That it couldn’t be anything other than sex, but only because it already happened. You said I was too young.”

“You _are_ too young,” Derek tells him.

Stiles presses himself against Derek, scratches at Derek’s neck just the way he likes. “Oh, yeah?”

The timer for the tea starts beeping and they break apart.

A moment later, Derek is handing over a mug and they make their way to the couch.

“Don’t burn yourself this time,” Derek says.

“But then what will you kiss better?”

Eyebrows raised, Derek deadpans, “What do you plan on burning?”

Stiles bites his tongue. No witty remark comes to mind so he just blows on his tea before realizing he’s tempting fate and sets it down on the table.

Both of their phones buzz at the same time. They both pick them up.

Scott.

> _Guys!!!!! R u ok? Where r u?_

Stiles examines his phone more closely. He’s got about ten previous messages that he somehow missed in the haze of watching Derek make tea.

Derek’s phone buzzes again a few seconds later.

Stiles leans over to read it.

> _Stiles is missing!!!!!_

Stiles looks at Derek, who’s frowning at the message. “You wanna tell him or should I?”

“What should I tell him?”

Shrugging, Stiles picks up his cup again, only to find one minute was not enough and set it back down. “I’m here? I’m fine?”

Derek taps at his phone, hits send.

Five seconds later, Stiles’s phone rings.

_“Why are you at Derek’s?”_

“For the excellent lunch specials.” He rolls his eyes. “Why do you think, Scotty?”

Scott’s confusion is audible through the phone’s tinny speaker.

“Sex, Scott. I was having sex with Derek.”

_“What?! Ew! Why?”_

“Sometimes I wonder if your werewolf senses have broken your common sense, or if you’re just that dense.”

 _“You really—”_ Scott whispers, as if this conversation is private. _“With **Derek**?”_

“Many times. Many, many times.”

_“How did I not know?”_

Stiles screws up his face. “Because I didn’t want you to know.”

A pouting silence reigns.

“You just said ‘ew’ and ‘why,’” Stiles argues.

_“But still.”_

“You _want_ to hear about the sex with Derek?”

The conversation only lasts another minute, with Scott alternating between being grossed out and glad to assure Stiles’s relative safety.

Stiles hangs up the phone and shivers, notices how Derek shifts marginally toward him before stopping. “You can fuck me but we can’t cuddle for warmth?” Stiles asks, earning an eye roll.

Derek pulls Stiles to his side and into his arms as he repositions himself on the couch, fixes them so Stiles is half on top of him and then pulls the blanket off the back cushion so it falls over them. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles grumbles into Derek’s chest, settling for a moment before he starts squirming. “My tea will get cold.” He stops struggling and props his head on one of his hands, staring at Derek. “You know what else will warm us up?”

Derek raises a far less incredulous eyebrow at that than he had at Stiles’s “kiss it better” line, so Stiles thinks it might actually be successful.

“Why do you, by the way?”

Derek’s frowns at him, confused.

It’s a whole hell of a lot of mental backtracking, Stiles realizes, but he perseveres. “Why do you, y’know…” He gestures as best he can from his current location. “Have the sex. With me. Why?”

Derek drops his head back against the arm of the couch and Stiles starts prodding him.

“I’m serious, alright?” He bites at Derek’s chest just because he can. “I mean, I get it but I also really don’t.”

“You treat me like a person,” Derek says.

Stiles frowns, but it turns into a scoff. “That’s it? ‘Hey, Derek, you’re real, let’s bang’?”

Derek shrugs as best he can, still doesn’t look at Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t have to hear heartbeats to know that Derek is lying, that there’s more. On the other hand, it says something _awful_ about Derek’s self-esteem that has his chest aching. “That makes me feel _so_ special,” he tells Derek, knows that he’s playing an awful, dirty game as he does but that niggling voice in his head is giving all the orders right now. “You were my first, you know. And it turns out—”

“I _know_ ,” Derek says. It’s far too earnest.

Stiles crawls further up Derek’s chest, makes eye contact. “I know you do. So tell me the truth. I deserve that much, don’t I?” _Do I?_ his mind hisses, but Stiles stalwartly ignores it.

Derek shifts uncomfortably, lets Stiles snuggle into him as a draft seeps in but doesn’t speak.

Stiles sighs, his head falling to Derek’s shoulder. Maybe he was right. Maybe he doesn’t need to know. Or maybe Derek was telling the truth and really all it takes is a kind word (or an unkind word, if Stiles is honest) to have him in bed and Stiles just happened to be the one that was _there_. 

“I’m not…” Derek breathes out harshly through his nose.

And then Stiles is far too aware of why Derek is speaking. Chemosignals have given him away and he shuffles off of Derek self consciously, picks up his mug and drinks. He watches the storm outside for a while, ignoring the cold that seeps right down to his bones because what he really wants is Derek but it seems like a bad idea now. He regrets saying anything to his dad and Scott, disrupting the fragile balance of whatever it was, whatever doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

Derek doesn’t say anything else.

“When I can go, we can just...pretend this didn’t happen. I’ll tell them I was kidding. I…” Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. “We don’t have to do this. Ever again.” He downs the rest of his tea and doesn’t care that it’s too hot, leaving his throat a hint too raw. At least it’s an excuse.

“That’s not what I meant,” Derek says. He sits up, flexes his hands, stands.

“It’s fine.” Stiles affects a grin into place. “I had fun.”

“Stiles—”

“Don’t. Just— Don’t, alright? Please.” Stiles props his elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

Derek paces. Stiles can hear his footsteps but doesn’t bother looking up.

Stiles wards off the panic attack threatening to consume him.

“I’m in love with you.”

The bottom drops out of Stiles’s stomach and he can’t breathe. He starts hyperventilating and drops his head between his knees as his hands grip the edges of the couch cushion.

He understands completely why Derek doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t stop him from wishing Derek would say _something_.

Stiles feels his heart beating in his chest, pressure he can’t relieve.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. “You don’t have to— I don’t expect you to feel the same way.”

Stiles hums. “I— ’S’not—” He can’t continue. He doesn’t know how.

He feels a tentative hand to his back. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” His voice has a panicked edge and Stiles would laugh if he currently had the capacity of breath.

“Just—” His fingers fumble their way over to Derek and Derek’s fingers slot between them.

Derek drops in front of Stiles. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here. This is… It’s okay.”

Stiles tries to nod, lets out a whimper.

“Can I?” Derek’s hands brush over Stiles’s shoulders, sides.

Stiles nods again, and again, trying to make it clear that he’s saying yes without actually speaking.

Derek pulls Stiles to him and holds onto him and Stiles tucks his face into Derek’s neck and breathes in. He doesn’t have werewolf senses, but Derek still smells warm and familiar and wonderful, like the earth after rain and pine needles and the _other_ soap in the shower that isn’t supposed to smell like anything but still leaves its traces. There’s something animal there, too. And in concentrating on that, on Derek, he begins to breathe a little better, even though tears seep into Derek’s sweater.

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs. “Okay. I’m alright. I just… Yeah.” He scoots further into Derek, drops down onto the floor, awkwardly rearranging their limbs to fit as they push away the table to make space.

“You sure?”

Stiles inhales deeply one more time, sucks in all the comfort Derek’s scent brings, and pulls away. “Yeah,” he confirms, scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Did you really have a panic attack because I told you I loved you?” Derek asks, knee bumping against Stiles’s where they now sit. He’s trying his best to go for light and Stiles appreciates the effort, even if it might not be totally successful.

“Well, you just told me I was convenient and then told me you loved me. Can you blame me for the emotional whiplash?” Stiles swipes at his face. He knows he must be splotchy and red and disgusting and ducks his head down.

“Look at me,” Derek says. “Please?”

Stiles slowly acquiesces, gaze meeting Derek’s.

“I love you, Stiles.” He shakes his head. “And I know it’s too much. You shouldn’t have to worry about that on top of everything else, so when this...happened.” He exhales harshly through his nose. “I didn’t want to pressure you. I didn’t want _this_ because it was too close.”

“Too close?” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Fucking is just too close? What’s closer?”

“Being in an actual relationship. With me.” Derek stares out the window. It’s already getting dark, between the storm clouds and the time of year.

“I know I’m the teenager here, but I have a feeling neither of us has ever been in an”—and he breaks out the air quotes—“‘actual relationship.’” Stiles knocks his knees against Derek’s purposefully this time, trying to elicit a response. “With someone who _actually_ cared and who really knew us, you know? Knew everything.”

Derek glances away and Stiles can see the wheels turning before Derek just swallows, nods. “You’re right. Secrets just…” His nostrils flare.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “I know. I— Yeah. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.” They’ve never acknowledged what happened to the girl, the one who made Derek’s eyes blue for all those years, but Stiles doesn’t say more, doesn’t explain. It’ll already hurt enough and Derek doesn’t need to hurt right now.

“I should’ve told you,” Derek confesses. “All of it. No matter how hard we want to keep things from people, they just—”

“Holy shit.”

Derek’s eyes snap to Stiles’s in question because Stiles barks out a _laugh_ , and the timing couldn’t be any more inappropriate. It’s very Stiles, though, and his automatic reaction is to glare, which only makes Stiles grin harder.

“I’m totally fucking in love with you, too.” Stiles leans forward and smashes his mouth messily against Derek’s, something akin to a kiss that Derek doesn’t respond to, caught up in his confusion.

Derek looks less angry, but he doesn’t really look anything else.

“I can’t believe it.” Stiles shakes his head. “I mean, it’s _me_. I should believe it, but, god. Derek, I’m in love with you.” He scrunches up his face, tongue sliding over his teeth as if tasting and testing out the words. “I’m in love with Derek Hale.”

“You don’t have to—”

Stiles waves a hand, shuts Derek up. “I was so worried about you and your feelings and there was this _thing_.” His hand claws out over his chest, above his heart. “This _thing_ that I couldn’t explain.” He slouches back. “I thought I was in love with Lydia but this… This is different. Fuck.”

Derek just waits, likely expecting Stiles to stop him again if he tries to speak.

Stiles frowns. “Wow. Love kinda sucks, huh?”

This elicits a laugh from Derek and his face actually edges into a smile, scoffing and soft but real.

Stiles smiles back, can’t help it. He finds Derek’s hand with his own and tugs him over. “C’mere.”

The kiss is achingly slow and amusement bubbles up, breaks their mingling breaths.

“I love you,” Stiles says, kisses Derek. “I love you.” Again.

“You don’t have to keep saying it,” Derek tells him, but he certainly isn’t protesting very hard.

Stiles’s expression is most definitely a smirk, too teasing to be anything else. “But I want to. I haven’t gotten to say it before, alright? Not like this.”

“Alright.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Stiles sighs. “There. It’s outta my system.”

Derek huffs, kisses Stiles only for Stiles to push him away.

Stiles stares at Derek consideringly a long moment. “God, I fucking love you.”

They slip down, Stiles’s back against the floor.

“I love you,” Derek says, rucking Stiles’s shirt up over his head, covering skin in his scent once again now that he has _permission_ , that everyone _knows_ , that they’re more than they ever were before.

And Stiles had been _so stupid_ on _so many levels_.

They fuck there on the floor, touching and laughing like it’s the first time even though their first time had been different, had been rushed and messy, had left _bruises_ —

But still perfect.

The draft cools sweat and everything else far too quickly and they don’t bother with clothes as they bundle up on the couch again under the blanket. “I want more tea,” Stiles complains.

“Okay,” and Derek starts to move.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Stay.”

“But—”

Stiles glares at him.

Derek settles in. “Okay.” He runs his hands over Stiles’s shoulder, his arm, then bites his cheek. “You know you told Scott, right? And your father?”

“Mmmyep,” Stiles intones.

“Still think he won’t arrest me?”

Stiles shrugs. “Eh. If he does, I’ll just break you out.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “We can go on the lam. Start committing crimes. I can be the getaway driver since you’ve got those”—and he gestures to his own eyes—“evidence destroyers there.” He nods to himself. “I can be the brains, you can be the brawn. Or vice versa. I’m pretty good with a baseball bat—”

“Stiles.”

Stiles glances up, already creating plans over what had started as a joke until his brain ran with it.

“I love you, but you’re ridiculous.”

“Good,” Stiles agrees with a grin, not letting up. “But, seriously, you’re, what? Twenty-three?”

“For a few more hours,” Derek agrees.

Stiles goes full stop. He opens and closes his mouth. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Derek nods, like _Stiles_ is the one not getting it.

“If today is Christmas Eve, and you’re twenty-three for a few more hours, that means— That means.” He narrows his eyes. “Your birthday is _Christmas_?”

Derek shrugs, nods.

“How did I not know that?” He’s about to say more when there’s a squeak of metal.

The loft door slides open.

“Alright, boys, put your pants on,” Malia says. “Storm’s over.” She sounds sure, even though she’s soaking wet, hair and clothes dripping on the floor.

Stiles and Derek’s heads swivel from Malia to the windows and back and raise their eyebrows.

“What?” she asks. “Scott told me to come check on you so I came. It’s just a little rain.”

“‘A little rain’?” Stiles scoffs, but then he hums. He squints at Malia. “Were you and Peter gonna do anything? Some secret Hale family Christmas I don’t know about?”

Malia makes a face. “No.”

“But it’s his birthday!” Stiles exclaims, gestures so hard he nearly falls from his and Derek’s blanket cocoon.

“So?” Malia is as nonplussed as ever, like Stiles just told her the sky is blue.

Stiles turns and smacks Derek on the chest. “You’re coming over.”

Derek’s eyes go alarmingly wide. “What?”

“Yep. You have to. You can’t be alone on Christmas _or_ your birthday and definitely not when both of those things are the same day. Which, what even.” He stands up, letting the blanket fall, and ignores the way Malia scrunches up her face as she’s surely hit full blast by the scent of sex and the sight of skin.

Derek doesn’t follow suit. “Stiles, that’s a horrible idea.”

“Horrible? Or _awesome_?” Stiles grins. “Doesn’t matter,” he decides. “You love me anyway.”

Derek just blinks up at him.

Malia breaks their stalemate. “Can I get a ride? I ran here.”

“Only if we’re _all_ going,” Stiles says, nudges Derek with his foot until Derek rolls his eyes and starts grabbing his own clothes.

The three of them make it down into the Jeep before Malia says, “You’re weird.” She doesn’t specify to whom and Stiles is about to take credit when she adds, “I like it.”

“Good. There’s gonna be a lot more weird where this came from.” Stiles reaches over, grabs Derek’s hand.

“You think your dad will wait until after dinner to kill me?” Derek asks.

“He’s not gonna kill you. Maybe lightly maim.”

Derek raises an eyebrow.

Malia glances between them from her position in the backseat. “Can I come, too?”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me the warmth I need to make it through the winter. ♥
> 
> **Happy Holidays!**


End file.
